


Orchard Walls

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-29
Updated: 2007-01-28
Packaged: 2018-08-16 07:17:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8093032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: "The orchard walls are high and hard to climb; / And the place death." --Romeo and Juliet, 2.2.63





	1. In The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Set in a Season 1 alternate universe; instead of "Shuttlepod One" perhaps.  
  
With grateful acknowledgements to NR, who saved my bacon.  


* * *

> The orchard walls are high and hard to climb;  
> And the place death.  
> \--Romeo and Juliet 2.2.63

Waking, Malcolm Reed's first thought was that there was something digging viciously into the small of his back; something that felt like a knife blade or a sharp stone. He reached a hand round and found that he was pushing aside not the expected softness of bedding and mattress but the small jagged edges of gravel or shale that rolled away from his touch as though he had fallen onto some yielding and unstable surface--only that he had no recollection of falling. Nor could he remember having been anywhere that felt like this; a vague memory of the Mess Hall on _Enterprise_ was the best he could manage, and the taste of coffee in his mouth seemed to confirm that it had been a recent occurrence.

Slowly, making his movements as small as possible to avoid disturbing the shale, he rolled over onto hands and knees and levered himself upright, looking around in utter bewilderment. It did not take long to confirm his initial impression that, no matter how long he gave his eyes to get used to the dark, there would be no outlines appearing to guide his progress; the blackness surrounding him was absolute, and whether his eyes were open or closed made no difference. There was no scintilla of light to be seen anywhere.

Worse, the echoing sounds made by even the slightest movement of his feet told him that the space he was in was vast, and reaching out with his hands confirmed that there was nothing in his immediate vicinity but more shale. It had a gentle but noticeable slope, and as he turned slowly through what seemed to him to be a full circle he picked up small pieces of stone at intervals and lobbed them into the darkness to try and judge the distances around him. The results were discouraging. In every direction his strongest throw carried; nothing interrupted the stones' flight, and more worryingly still the one that he threw downwards where the slope was steepest seemed to fall clear over the lip of a drop and eventually hit water far below.

Malcolm shuddered. "Not that way, then," he murmured to himself, softly.

He turned his face uphill, pausing for a moment to allow his senses to become attuned to his task, and then began to trudge upwards with a regular, mechanical stride. The air was fresh and cool but had no direction, indicating an enclosed space; the temperature, the darkness, the shale underfoot and the presence of water all seemed to signify that he was underground on some planet, but as _Enterprise_ had not been within a day's travel of any planet when he had been in the Mess Hall on whatever day it had been--Tuesday?--they could scarcely have reached one while the taste of coffee was still in his mouth. Although perhaps he had lost several days, and with them several cups of coffee, that he knew nothing about. That would make sense if he had fallen from somewhere and remained concussed in the darkness for some considerable time; such a fall would account for the absence of his phase pistol and communicator, too--he had probably dropped them. 

Miraculously he seemed not to be injured in any major respect. His mind was a little fogged, but it was working reasonably adequately--and his body was no worse than bruised. There was nothing about him inconsistent with a fall from above, which had done very little damage but had probably looked completely spectacular--assuming there had been anyone around to see it. If he had fallen while on some planetary survey, though, wouldn't there be companions from the landing party tearing the place apart looking for him?

_Wouldn't_ there?

Well, no, there might not be. They might have fallen too and fared worse, or been captured by local residents, or any one of a hundred other things might have happened to them. Hoshi, probably. Maybe even Captain Archer himself; he wasn't above leading his people straight into trouble now and then.

Reed shook his head. Speculation was idle. He was merely trying out scenarios to see whether any of them felt familiar, and the trouble was they all _did_. He'd been on enough planetary landings already for them to have taken on a routine shape; a small group of no more than five officers would land by shuttlepod, take sensor readings and soil samples, examine the local flora and fauna, look for signs of habitation and act in accordance with whatever they found. That was it. He would supply a flexible response to any hostile situation encountered, and eventually they would all pack up and go home and live happily ever after. Whether the officer beside him was T'Pol, Archer, Mayweather, Commander Tucker or Crewman A mattered little as long as there was a job to be done.

Not that he had ever found himself in a situation quite like this before, utterly alone and unarmed, in the dark, in a vaguely sinister environment and completely without bearings. It was almost pure sensory deprivation, and whilst his military training had included interrogation scenarios that had elements in common with this place he had always known that they were rehearsed and that all he had to do was role-play his way through them. Here there were no rules; here, the darkness could conceal absolutely _anything_ , and he would be powerless against it.

It was not the most comforting of thoughts.

* * *

Half an hour or more of slow progress brought him no closer to light, nor to any recognisable feature. He paused from time to time and threw stones but they went just as far as before, although he was comforted to realise that he had moved away from the water. On the other hand, perhaps that had not been such a sensible move as he had first thought; thirst was beginning to be a problem, and the more he thought about it the worse it became. Still, he knew he could move quickly--possibly _too_ quickly--down the slope if he changed his mind; retreat was not impossible, just not an option that appealed at this stage.

Stopping again, Malcolm waited for his breathing to slow a little before bending to pick up his customary handful of stones. He had been moving cautiously, unwilling to disturb the friable ground beneath him any more than was strictly necessary, so it was with some surprise that he heard a small avalanche of falling shale rattling down over the unstable surface a short distance away. He froze in position, head turning to focus on the sound, and shortly it happened again, this time followed by what seemed almost like a human sound--indeed, a grunt of annoyance if he was not mistaken. Whatever-- _whoever_ \--was making the noises appeared to be stumbling towards him through scurries of gravel, feet sliding and failing to grip, struggling for a foothold at every step.

Reed remained utterly still, senses reaching out towards whoever was approaching, alert to every least sign of identity. It seemed to be higher up the slope and somewhere to his right, and he had not yet decided whether it would be wisest to call out and alert it to his presence or just remain still and hope that it would pass without realising he was there. On the whole, waiting seemed the safest option--and Malcolm Reed was a patient man. He would wait for ever, if the objective was worth it. He crouched down, making himself as small a target as possible, preparing to hold that position and observe until he had enough information on which to act.

Another scurry and stumble, and then the sound of a bucket-load of shale being tipped down over the slope as the other being missed its footing again. That gave Reed the comforting thought that it must be as blind as he was himself; he felt immeasurably more secure knowing that he was dealing with someone as vulnerable as he was. Then another muttered exclamation caught his ear as the figure apparently scrabbled back to its feet and all caution was banished in the instant.

"Aw, shit." The soft accent was unmistakable. Reed leapt up, caution abandoned in the astonishment of recognition.

"Commander Tucker? _Trip_? Is that you?" His words rang boldly in the limitless darkness, starting an echo that frightened him with its depth.

The other person stopped moving, and the echoes placed him closer than ever.

"What? _Malcolm_? Lieutenant Reed?" The words were undoubtedly those of _Enterprise's_ Chief Engineer. "Where the hell _are_ you?"

"Here, Commander. Somewhere below you, I think."

"Damn this stuff," Tucker groaned. "I can't keep my feet. You seen anyone else?"

Reed ignored the paradox in the question. "No, sir. I thought I was alone. I'm glad I'm not."

"Okay. Walk towards my voice, will you? Don't suppose you've got a torch?"

"No, sorry." Silence fell for a moment as Reed climbed a little higher, then realised he was roughly where he had imagined Tucker to be but had no idea in which direction to move now. "Sir, are you there?"

"Here, Malcolm." Reassuringly, the voice was only feet away. "Hold out your hand. You got any idea what this place is?"

"No. I think I must have been unconscious. I just woke up here, in the dark. I assumed I'd had a fall, but..."

" _I_ don't know either. I was in a turbolift with the Captain and Phlox, heading towards Sickbay. I don't have a memory after that until I woke up here, just the way you did."

"Was that Tuesday?"

"Tuesday, 14.00 hours or a little after. One moment I'm talking to Phlox about upgrades for the medical scanners, the next I'm flat on my back on a heap of gravel at the bottom of some darned alien coal-mine. Damn, I hate it when that happens!" Tucker's voice was closer, and a moment later Reed stumbled sideways and his flailing arm touched something that was undeniably human. "Dammit, Malcolm, you hit me in the face!" Tucker's hand grabbed onto Reed's wrist with unnecessary ferocity and reeled him in until they were standing in absolute darkness gripping each other's biceps fiercely and totally unable to see so much as a glimmer of one another's face.

"Sorry," Reed apologised automatically. "I thought you were higher up the slope." In actuality he had almost passed Tucker on the high side, and the senior man had to take a wide step upwards to bring them onto a level.

"Okay." Even when Reed had re-established a secure footing, Tucker did not let go his hold. In fact, there was something unbelievably reassuring about the way his strong fingers bit through the cloth of Reed's uniform sleeve. In a world where nothing existed but themselves, it was too soon yet to abandon the security that physical contact gave them, and they retained their hold on one another. "Well, we've been making enough noise for the others to hear us if they're anywhere near," Tucker observed, calmly, "but why don't we shout just for the hell of it? Hey, _Captain_? _Hoshi_?"

" _Doctor_?" Reed joined in. "Travis? Ford? _Beamish_?"

"Beamish? Are you kidding? I wouldn't take him on a landing party! He'd be a liability. The man can't walk down a corridor without falling over his own feet."

"He scores very well on my aptitude tests," Reed remarked mildly, as though a little offended. Ensign Beamish wasn't one of Nature's loveliest creatures but as a mathematician he had few rivals.

"Oh good," was the amused reply. "Let's hope we find him soon, then, just in case we run into a rampaging herd of quadratic equations."

"Wouldn't help," Reed observed. "I think _sarcasm_ is probably our only weapon at the moment."

"That was gonna be my next question," Tucker admitted. "Don't suppose you have a communicator, either?"

"Nothing. What do you think we ought to do?"

"I don't know. Is there anything you _can_ tell me? You found anything interesting here?"

"Evidence of water somewhere below. I dropped a stone into it. Whether we could climb down, in the dark, I wouldn't like to guess. Or whether it'd be drinkable when we got there, of course. How about you?"

"Not even that much. Any sign of food?"

"Not a thing. Just me and my uniform, I'm afraid."

"Okay. I've got some gum, but I think we'll save that awhile. Where were you headed when we ran into each other?"

"Up the slope."

"Uh-huh. You got a particular reason?"

"Just wanted to avoid the possibility of falling into the water, actually," Reed told him in a disarmingly even tone. Bizarre as the situation was, it was apparent that neither man was in the least fearful or distressed; at the moment only the intellectual challenge of their predicament concerned them. "This reminds me of those 'fleet survival exercises where they drop you on an island or in the middle of a rain forest and you have to work out where you are and how to get back."

"Aw, don't remind me," Tucker chuckled. "Where'd they drop _you_?"

"The Whitsunday Islands. Off the coast of Australia. Fortunately there was plenty to eat." The grin was audible in Reed's voice. "You?"

"Beechey Island. Arctic Circle. Permafrost and polar bears."

"Oh, bad luck. Still, I'd like to hear about it some time."

"You will. Maybe not today, though, huh? I think we have enough problems already."

"Maybe not," Malcolm conceded. Then, after a pause; "So what next?"

"Onward and upward," Tucker told him, slapping his shoulder relentlessly. "C'mon, Lieutenant, time to head on up the hill."

* * *

An hour or more of steady climbing left them both too short of breath for further exchange of repartee, but the quality of the echoes around them was undoubtedly changing. At intervals they had called out the names of their absent colleagues, augmenting the roll-call with the names of those who could not possibly be there--Malcolm's sister, the Admiral, the Vulcan Ambassador--just for the sake of variety. In the end, however, exertion and thirst had armour-plated their throats and it had no longer seemed like a sensible use of energy to try and make contact with colleagues who obviously were not present. That they were alone together in this darkness had become too apparent to be worth stating, and although the thought occurred to both it was at no time voiced between them.

Drawing to a halt Tucker reached out, as had long become customary, and gripped Reed's shoulder to assure himself he was still there.

"How you doin', Malcolm?"

"Getting a little tired, if I'm honest," Reed admitted, his voice thick as though with dust. "And I'd like something to drink."

"Yeah, me too." Despite the futility of the gesture, Tucker looked around himself in the darkness. "I never figured _any_ place could be this dark," he said. "You know, after a while, you start seein' things that aren't there. I think your brain just needs to fill the vacuum."

"You've been hallucinating? Thank goodness. I mean--I'm sorry you're hallucinating, Trip, but it's a relief to know I'm not the only one."

"You too, huh? What'd you see?"

"A train," Reed said, unexpectedly. "You know, a railroad train. Going over a bridge, as it happens. You?"

"Horses. A whole herd of them, wild desert horses."

"Oh. _Do_ you ride?"

A wry chuckle. "Horses? Nope. Well, I do--but the horses usually wish I hadn't. Got a motorbike, though. They don't eat so much. How 'bout you?"

"Riding? No."

"I thought _all_ you British..."

"You know, that's an interesting thing," Reed interrupted, cutting ruthlessly through whatever it was Tucker had thought about the British. "We're meeting people from other planets and species we can sometimes barely understand, but we still have so many misconceptions about our _own_ world. Have you ever _been_ to England?"

"No, I..."

"My father's a businessman. We're not old aristocracy, we don't have an estate, and I don't spend my free time wearing tweeds and hacking around the broad acres. I study military history and listen to music whenever I get the chance; I'm an urban animal, Commander, not a country boy."

His voice trailed to exasperated silence, and only the grip on his wrist told him that he had not lost his audience.

"Finished?" Tucker asked eventually.

"Yes. Thank you."

"Good. Well, it may interest you to know that _I_ don't spend all _my_ time bustin' broncs and ropin' steers, either," the senior officer said evenly. "When I'm home I do volunteer work on a conservation project, and I like to ice skate. What do you say we throw away the stereotypes we've both been carryin' around and start out fresh--Trip and Malcolm, the only two people on this planet, wherever the hell it is?"

"Oh god, I hope not," Reed groaned, feelingly.

"What d'you mean?"

"I hope we're not _entirely_ alone, that's all," was the rejoinder. "I'm hoping that somewhere there's a cup of coffee with my name on it."

Trip chuckled. "Oh really?" he asked, ironically. "I thought all you Britishers drank tea."

* * *

By the time another hour had passed both men were so hot and tired and so sick of having to pick one another up when they stumbled that they had resorted to staying in physical contact at all times. After a failed attempt at roping themselves together using the sleeves of their uniform jump-suits they had settled for knotting the sleeves round their waists and adopted the simple, albeit at first slightly embarrassing, practice of holding hands.

"I'm glad there's nobody here to see us," Reed confessed. "This feels a little strange."

"Malcolm, even _we_ can't see us," Trip told him tiredly, squeezing the hand he held. "Believe me, if this is the worst you ever need to do to survive, you'll have got off lightly. And if you think _this_ is embarrassing..." He trailed off, the words not forming.

"I know." Reed's tone was enigmatic in the darkness, but the grip of his hand was firm and affectionate. "I wasn't much help when you were..."

" _Pregnant_ , Malcolm. You can _say_ it, you know."

"Well, I _wasn't_ much help when you were pregnant, was I? I was too busy feeling stunned, I think."

"That's okay. There were a lot of other people trying to help. There were times there when I just wished they'd _all_ leave me alone."

The silence that fell was eloquent, and then Malcolm said slowly and with the air of one summoning up all his courage: "Would you have _had_ it, do you think?"

"Oh yeah. No question." The swiftness of the response served only to reinforce the words. "Her. I'd've had _her_."

"It gave me a completely different picture of you," Reed confessed. "Before that I thought you were a bit thick, actually--and I probably had you down as homophobic too. It's amazing how many people still are. My father, for example."

"Yeah, I know people like that," Trip admitted. "I know guys who wouldn't hold hands in a dark place in case it made them queer. You know _why_ they're so afraid, Malcolm?"

"Yes. Scared they might like it, and terrified of what it'd do to their image. Never bothered _me_ in the slightest," Reed added, casually.

"You're not afraid holding my hand'll make you queer?"

A jolt of surprise through the joined hands. "It's a little late for that, Trip," Malcolm said, smoothly. "I'm sorry, I thought you knew. I _am_. I always _have_ been."

"Oh."

"Actually what I was embarrassed about was being led by the hand by a senior officer. I feel like a child out with its nanny in the park. I wouldn't want anyone to think I couldn't look after myself."

"Whoa. Hold it." Trip squeezed down tightly on the hand gripped in his. "Let's go back to the part where you tell me you're gay. That's what you meant, right?"

"Yes. Was it really such a shock?"

"Hmmm. Can I say 'no' without upsetting you?"

"Of course you can. It's all right, Trip, I know _this_..." a reassuring tightening of the joined hands "...doesn't mean anything. You'd do the same thing with Hoshi or Captain Archer in the circumstances."

"God save me from ever having to hold hands with Jonathan Archer!" Trip exclaimed. "He wouldn't let me hear the end of it. The guy'd be merciless."

"He was very supportive when you were pregnant," Reed reminded him.

"I know. He's sort of been like a big brother to me. He'd've been with me all the way, I knew that."

"So would I, I think. Once I'd got over the shock. I can't really imagine you as a parent, but...well, I came fairly close to being one myself a few years ago. Oh, not _that_ close," he amended quickly, "but I was proposed to, just after I joined Starfleet, by a man I'd known for a long time. I was very tempted for a while, but it would have meant putting my career on hold for at least five years; he wanted us to have children right away."

"You mean you'd've had the surgery?"

"Well, one of us would have had to. We never got as far as having the tests to find out which would be the most suitable carrier. I tried talking it over with my father, but he was opposed to it from the outset. He's never considered homosexuality a valid life choice, and I think he's disappointed that I don't feel thoroughly ashamed of myself. Have I mentioned that we don't really get on?"

Trip had stopped moving, pulled hard on the hand he held and brought Malcolm closer to him.

"Listen," he said, "I didn't know any of this. If I hit you on a wound, I'm sorry."

Malcolm shrugged, and the movement echoed through both bodies. "It doesn't hurt any more," he admitted. "Richard married a girl in the end and had his babies the old-fashioned way. I wouldn't have been right for him; I'm glad we both realised that before it was too late."

In the darkness Trip's free hand made an unheralded move towards Malcolm's face. A thumb-tip wiped across his cheek and found it dry.

"Just thought you might be cryin'," the engineer said awkwardly, setting aside all question of what might have happened if he _had_ been.

"Expecting me to fall apart at the tragic memory of my lost love?" An edge of hostility was readily apparent in Malcolm's voice. "Don't tell me you need to purge yourself of yet another prejudice? I thought it was just _Brits_ you had a stereotyped picture of."

" _I'm_ about as anti-gay as _you're_ anti-straight," Tucker told him, coldly. "Maybe I have some out of date delusions about Britishness, but unfortunately I don't have a lot of British friends. I have _gay_ friends, however--like a dog has fleas."

"I shouldn't let Porthos hear you say that." Malcolm squeezed the hand in return. "I'm sorry, too, Trip. I _know_ you're only concerned about me. The truth is, I don't feel all that upset about it any more. I'd like to have been so much in love I could still cry about it ten years later, but I wasn't. I don't know if I ever _have_ been, although I've had plenty of relationships since. Oh god, I think my sense of humour must be on walkabout. This place is becoming so damned _tedious_."

"Well, I think we're near the top, if that helps."

"Why do you say that?"

"Sound's getting shallower, like we're approaching something solid. You know, Malcolm, _somebody_ knows we're here."

"How d'you mean?"

"Well, I mean..." Tucker paused, took a breath. "We don't remember getting here, either of us, but I'm betting it wasn't an accident. I'd say we were _put_ here, although _who_ put us here and _why_..."

"...are anybody's guess." Malcolm reached out his free hand and rested it on Trip's upper arm, patting reassuringly. "I hate everything aboutthis place except you," he said. "I'm just glad to have some company, no matter how...provoking."

"Hey, you can't call a senior officer 'provoking'," Trip protested, returning the half-embrace with enthusiasm. "Not when he's holding your hand to keep you from falling over in the dark, anyway."

"I know, Commander, and I'm duly grateful," Malcolm returned, not shielding the affection from his tone, "but actually _I'm_ the one who's keeping _you_ from falling over."

"You trying to tell me we need each other, Lieutenant?"

"I'm afraid, sir," Malcolm said serenely, "it very much looks like that."

* * *

The echoes grew shallower and shallower as the two officers continued their weary struggle, but the prospect of reaching some tangible object that might offer them a way out of their predicament was much muted by their vastly increased weariness. Fit as both were, trudging uphill over an infinite mountain of shale in an incomprehensible wilderness of black had sapped their strength to the point where they now seemed to drag one another every single step of the way, welded together with arms around one another's waists and progressing in ungainly four-legged motion like a crippled crab. They were breathing heavily, sweating freely, too exhausted to speak much, bent backs aching ferociously every time they gained another few metres of height.

"D'you...think...there _is_...an end?" Malcolm gasped, his whole weight sagging against Trip's shoulder.

"I wish I knew, buddy," was the exhausted reply. "But I'm about ready to sit down and take a break."

"We can't...stop now."

"No? Why not?"

"The sound. It sounds as if we're in a room. I think there's a wall or something ahead of us. I think we should go on until we reach it, and rest when we get there. Sir," Reed added, respectfully, very aware of the protocol in giving advice to a superior officer.

Trip couldn't help laughing. "Damn, Malcolm, can't you just drop the rank for a minute? This is about the most intimate you can get with a guy and still keep your clothes on; think I'm gonna bring charges if you forget to call me 'sir'?"

"No. But if we're going to disagree I want you to know it's not out of disrespect."

"All right. So noted. So, roughly translated, 'sir' from you means 'You're talking out of a hole in your face again, Trip'."

"Roughly." Leaning close, sharing a friendly laugh, Malcolm's forehead touched Trip's cheek. It hadn't been intended, but nor did it seem unwelcome. Trip had been perfectly correct about intimacy; it had grown so naturally between them that they had scarcely noticed it, and by the time they realised how extraordinarily close they had become they were frankly just too weary to care.

Trip cleared his throat, tightening his proprietorial grip on Malcolm's waist as he did so. "So you're telling me to keep going just a little while longer, huh, Malcolm?"

"We _must_ be nearly there, surely?" A softer, more pleading note in the junior officer's voice.

"I know. I know you're right, buddy. I just have to persuade my legs to keep going. Every time we stop moving, it gets harder to start again."

"I'm sorry. I wish there was something else I could suggest."

"I wish there was, too. C'mon, now, let's move before I seize up altogether."

* * *

Another half hour saw a distinct easing in the gradient of the slope, which gradually fell back to become almost level. The quality of the sound had continued to change, too, and now when Malcolm paused to throw stones in all directions it seemed that several of them hit at something very substantial not too far ahead. Bent double, almost crawling, calf muscles stretched unbearably and legs and backs feeling as if they were on fire, the two Starfleet officers progressed in tandem across the level surface until, almost literally, bumping into a wall.

If they had expected a rock-face or some piece of rough construction, this was not it. Malcolm's left hand--his right was still firmly around Trip's waist, supporting the greater part of the engineer's weight--at first brushed and then made solid contact with something that felt cold and smooth like glass, and apart from minor ripples in the surface seemed to have no flaws or perforations.

"Oh," he said, stupidly, startled.

"What?"

"It's a wall." Brain numbed by weariness, he could think of nothing more intelligent to say.

Trip lurched forward, detaching himself from Malcolm's hold, and rested both palms on the wall.

"Natural or manufactured?" he asked.

"Manufactured, I think," was the considered reply. "It's too precisely built to have been natural. Feel that surface."

Trip allowed his hands to roam widely over the wall. There was something silky about its texture, as though it had been polished to a very high degree of perfection and would gleam with light falling upon it--or perhaps through it--if the miracle of light should ever come to this place. He tapped the wall with his knuckles, but the answering sound was solid.

"It's thick, smooth, solid, and too high for us to climb over," he said, at length. "That's all we know about it."

"Not quite." Malcolm was scrabbling around in the shale, and the strain in his voice spoke of added exertion. "It also goes down further than I can reach. We can dig with our hands, but somehow I don't think we'll get under it either."

"So I guess the next thing is to try and find a doorway or an end. We can follow it around and see what we come to."

"Judging by the size of this place, that could take weeks," Malcolm told him, despondently.

"Aw, come on, Malcolm, that's defeatist talk. You're not giving up on me after all this; I just plain won't allow it. You nag and bully me all the way up that damned hill and then you give out at the top; what kind of Starfleet officer _are_ you?"

"A bloody tired one," Reed groaned, abandoning his digging project and turning to lean his back against the wall. "How about taking a rest, Trip? We've probably been climbing the best part of eight hours, without anything to eat or drink. We need to try and conserve energy if we can."

Trip turned in the darkness and slowly eased himself down the wall until he was sitting on the shale.

"I'll go along with that," he said. "Have some gum." He produced a small package from inside the folds of his uniform, extracted two wrapped sticks of gum and handed one to Malcolm. In the darkness their fingers became entangled, but it seemed scarcely worth mentioning among all the other intimacies that had become commonplace. Indeed, it took some considerable time for either of them to notice that Reed's head had fallen comfortably onto Tucker's shoulder; physical closeness in the absolute nothingness of this captivity had become the only reality, the only indicator for either that any other life existed outside this place.

"Want to sleep?" Tucker asked, solicitously, after what seemed a very long pause.

"Yes, I do. Do you think we should take turns?"

"Probably should," Trip conceded. Then, still more wearily; "You going to quote Starfleet regs. for hostile situations at me, Lieutenant?"

"No," Malcolm said tiredly. "Why don't you sleep first? I'll wake you in a little while."

"You over-ruling me again, _Captain_ Reed?"

"I'm sorry. I just thought..."

"I know, you thought that as I'm senior and incidentally a whole four years older than you I'd need my beauty rest more--right? I suppose if I told _you_ to sleep first I'd get an argument?"

"No," Reed laughed, unexpectedly. "No argument. I've had it with being noble, for the time being. I'm so damned weary I'd do whatever you wanted, just as long as it got me some sleep."

"Okay. Then the orders are 'stay just where you are, close your eyes and think beautiful thoughts'. Whatever is beautiful to _you_ ," Tucker went on, wistfully.

"Bright places with clear water," Malcolm mused, his voice softening. "Girls with long shining hair. Rainbows, sunsets, lakes, mountains. Fairy-tale palaces on green hillsides."

"Girls? Not _guys_?"

"You don't meet a lot of _guys_ with long shining hair in my line of work," was the amused reply. "Only the occasional Klingon. And anyway, this is _my_ fantasy; I don't remember giving you editorial control over it."

"Okay. Girls with long shining hair it is. Strikes me, Lieutenant Reed, that you're a bit of a romantic," Trip murmured, approvingly.

"Yes, I think I must be." Almost unaware of what he was doing, Malcolm snuggled closer into the crook of Trip's neck. "Is that bad?"

"Oh, no, buddy, believe me, it's good. It's just what you need for being out here in a place nobody's ever been before, struggling up a mountain in the dark. Don't you ever lose those dreams, Malcolm."

"If I do, I've got plenty more," was the soft response.

"I'll bet you do, friend," Trip whispered back into the intimate dark between them. "I'll just bet you do."

* * *

Waking again, after an indefinable time, Malcolm had the sickening sense that nothing had changed--but that everything had. His uniform was still bunched around his waist, his back was now resting against the glass wall, and his head was pillowed on some kind of fabric that smelled reassuringly of Trip Tucker. That only served to point up the awful reality of his inner dread; apart from it, he was alone with the shale and the wall.

"Trip?" he said, his throat tight and his voice small. "Trip? Are you there?"

There was no response, so he reached out all around himself in the hopes that Tucker had fallen asleep close by and would still be within reach. He hoped to encounter an outflung arm or find his fingers buried in the soft dark blond hair they'd always itched to stroke, but beneath his hands the shale was cold and yielding and there was no sign of a human presence other than his own.

He sat up then, clutching the garment to him. It could only be the undershirt Trip had been wearing. He shook it out and confirmed the shape and texture of it with his hands, then bunched it together and pressed it to his face, inhaling deeply the body scent that lingered in the fabric; sweat and grime and staleness and familiarity. 

Of all people he could have been thrown into this godforsaken pit with, Commander Charles Tucker had to be the most complicated choice. When he'd said he had dreams to spare he could have gone on to add that at least half of them now featured the Chief Engineer, although he had never seriously considered Tucker as a potential lover. It was not just the matter of rank that had been against him. Certainly that had entered his calculations, but more importantly it had never crossed his mind that Trip had any potential to be interested in _him_.

Maybe he had been blinded by Trip's apparent heterosexuality, or their lack of anything but their careers to give them common ground. They were so unalike there was no obvious meeting-point, and yet when they were able to set aside their preconceptions they found themselves bound together and sharing reassuring physical tenderness and openly expressed affection. In other circumstances he would have said this was a relationship that could go somewhere; maybe if they ever got out of here they could give it a try. Somehow, he was beginning to get the feeling Trip would like that idea just as much as he did himself.

Malcolm raised his face from the sweet warm scent trapped in the shirt, all idle future daydreams banished as he tried to bend his mind to some logical process of thought--beginning with what seemed to him the simplest and most straightforward questions. Why would Trip wander off while he was asleep, and why would he leave his shirt behind? Could it have been to reassure Malcolm, when he woke, that Trip had truly been there? That would make a sort of sense. But where had he gone, and how could he have abandoned Malcolm and gone off alone? What should he read into Trip's desertion--fear of their increasing closeness, or some more simple practical motivation? Most important of all, was he all right or had he fallen into some worse horror where Malcolm could not reach him?

"Trip?" He spoke more loudly this time. "TRIP!" The last a yell, a high note that didn't sound like him at all. _Incipient panic creeping in, Lieutenant,_ he chided himself wryly.

"Malcolm?" In distant darkness, the welcome note of the other man's voice threw Malcolm's heart into somersaults of helpless relief. "Okay, stay there, I'm coming back."

"Where have you been?" He cursed himself for being so feeble, and at the same time wondered what in heaven's name had made him tell Trip that he had stopped crying over Richard and why he had wanted so much for him to believe it.

Trip's voice was far away, and even shouting it was difficult to make out his answers, but after a while Malcolm could hear crunching footsteps across the skittering gravel. He believed he understood, at least part of it. Trip had not been as tired as he was. He had waited until Malcolm was soundly asleep, and then had gone off examining the wall.

"Exploring," Trip said, appreciably nearer this time.

"Find anything?"

"Yup. Found a doorway."

"Good!"

"Not good. It doesn't go anywhere."

"It doesn't?"

"Nope." Within arm's length now, Trip almost fell as he reached Malcolm, making contact and holding on to him for a long moment. Malcolm's arms slid around him, pulled him into an embrace that he felt no need either to explain or to qualify. Trip was bare-chested, his uniform still knotted around his waist, and his skin was cold as he let himself be held. He made no resistance, and his cold arms closed around Malcolm's shoulders and showed a distinct unwillingness to let go at any point in the immediate future. It was just how it ought to be; any distance between them greater than half a metre was now too painful to be borne.

"Want your shirt back?" Malcolm said against his neck, some long time later.

"Yes, please."

Unwinding from the embrace, Malcolm located the shirt and put it into Trip's hands. He shook it out, and wriggled back into it.

"Thank you for leaving that," Malcolm said, his voice under iron discipline. "I would have thought you were a dream without that."

"That's how I figured it. I wanted you to know I was coming back. I left you the gum, too. Guess you didn't find that?"

Startled, Reed patted himself down and eventually produced the slender package of gum from within the folds of his clothing. "Thanks." He handed it back into fingers that were precisely where he expected them to be.

"Okay," Trip acknowledged.

An awkward silence followed this stilted exchange, and then Malcolm said; "So what do you mean, the door doesn't go anywhere?"

"It's not a door," Trip shrugged. "Just a gap. The wall continues a couple of paces further on, like it's another slab the same as this one. Like they were just--I don't know, _lowered_ into place or something."

"My god, is that even _possible_?"

"Not with _our_ technology, I guess, but whoever built this place is some way ahead of us. I went through the gap," he continued, his voice falling in timbre. "On the other side it's just the same as it is here. More shale, another slope, steepness and slipperiness and an echo that goes on a very long way."

"So what do you think we should do? Keep on climbing? Another day of soul-destroying uphill slog, and then what? Another wall? Another gap? Another hill?"

Tucker stretched his legs out again, settled himself with his back against the solidity of the wall and wrapped a brotherly arm around Malcolm's thin shoulders.

"We're not equipped for that," he said. "Mentally, physically, in any other way. We've tried meeting this hill head on and it didn't work. I've been thinking about this, and I guess I know what we should try now."

"Go on, _what_?"

Tucker let his head rest against Reed's. "Ignore it," he said tiredly. "Hope it'll go away."

"Are you _serious_?" The more rested Malcolm was scandalised. "Give up _now?_ You can't mean it!"

"I didn't say _anything_ about giving up," Trip reminded him. "I see this is as a positive choice. You agree with me that somebody _put_ us here, don't you?"

"It certainly looks that way," Malcolm conceded, supporting Trip's weight and beginning to wonder if he had ever been happier in his life.

"Then they had to have a reason for doing that, right? They're waiting to see what we'll do. Suppose we just refuse to play their little game? How about, instead of running around like rodents in a maze, we just sit and wait for them to decide what to do with us? Ever wondered what would happen if a lab rat went on strike?"

"I don't think they're allowed to. I suspect they get _killed_ if they try it," Reed observed dourly.

"Okay. But if somebody's going to try and kill _me_ , I want it to be while I've still got the energy to resist--not after another day or three of slogging on this damned treadmill and getting nowhere. We're only going to get weaker, Malcolm. I say we make a stand here instead."

"And I suppose if I argue you'll tell me I can just go off somewhere on my own while you stay behind, will you?"

"That's about it, buddy. Got you over a barrel, huh?"

"You do," was the quiet admission. "You _know_ I won't go off without you, don't you, Trip? Having found you and hung on to you all this time, I'm not prepared to just walk away and leave you now."

A long pause, while Tucker digested not only the words that had been said but those that had not. "Sounds like you really _mean_ that, Malcolm."

"Does it? Well, maybe I do. Would it matter?"

"Yes. Yes, it would."

"Then I mean it."

There was no response for a very long time. Then, eventually, when Reed had begun to think perhaps that Tucker would prefer not to discuss either this subject or any other with him, Trip shifted position and wrapped an arm around his waist, his head settling against Malcolm's chest. It was like every romantic daydream Malcolm Reed had ever had in his life; castles and fairy princesses and unicorns and lakes and sunsets, all rolled up into one moment of sweetness that would last as long as he lived. It was all the evidence he needed that he had never been truly in love with Richard, and that their idle dreams had suffered the fate they deserved.

"Sleepy?" he asked, affectionately.

"Uh-huh."

A hand came to rest on the back of Trip's head. Experimentally Malcolm stroked his matted hair, finding the strands as smooth and soft as he had always expected--and when the gesture was not rejected he repeated it, falling into a rhythmic pattern of stroking and soothing as Trip's breathing deepened against his chest, letting the delightful fantasy unwind in his mind. He could not believe how soothing and comfortable it was, holding this man close almost as if they were lovers--or at any rate decidedly more intimate than they had been until this place got hold of them. Whether there could ever be more to it than this didn't seem to matter any more; all he cared about was the sweetness of the moment and the trust he had won from the man he held in his arms.

"Just rest for now, Trip," he whispered, comfortingly. "Think beautiful thoughts. Think about all the things we'll do when we're free. I'm not going anywhere without you unless you tell me you don't want me any more. I wouldn't know how. I'll still be here when you wake."

"Promise," Trip told him, from the fringes of sleep.

"Promise," was the unqualified reply from lips that almost touched his brow, as the darkness wove an unbreakable web around them where they lay.


	2. In The Light

> With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls  
> For stony limits cannot hold love out.  
> \--Romeo and Juliet, 2.2.66

"You're sure you feel well enough?" Captain Archer asked, quirking an eyebrow in the direction of his Chief Engineer.

Tucker stepped into the cabin and dropped the squash rackets he was carrying onto the nearest chair. He was coolly dressed for the match he had challenged Archer to, but the expression on his face was anything but encouraging.

"Why?" he demanded combatively. "You think I'm not fit enough to whip your butt?"

Archer, pulling on a sport shirt in the doorway to his night cabin, chuckled. "Oh, you're probably fit enough," he agreed, "but you've been kind of...distracted...since you got back from that place."

'That place'. It had never had much more of a name than that. Charts showed up only a number, which translated depressingly as VX-73, and even the Vulcan database had not been able to come up with much beyond a little cultural and archaeological information relating to ruins on the surface. The Vulcans had not troubled themselves with the underground installation; it was comprehensively sealed off from the outside world and there was no sign that it had been used in more than three thousand years. In fact, only two beings in recorded history were known to have first-hand knowledge of conditions under the surface of VX-73, and Trip Tucker was one of them. When he thought about it, that was a distinction he could well have done without.

Tucker pulled a face, then dumped the racquets on the floor and slumped into the vacated seat.

"Tell you the truth, Cap, there _is_ something preyin' on my mind about that place--but it may not be quite what you're thinkin'."

Archer smoothed the shirt down, closed off his sleeping quarters, and took the desk chair opposite Trip. He leaned forward, hands folded. "I'm listening."

Trip bit his lower lip a time or two, then looked squarely up at his Captain.

"Jon," he said, trading on their long acquaintance, "I don't want to make things awkward for you but I think I'm about ready to start _seeing_ someone on the ship. Well, dating, I guess, only we haven't discussed it yet." He waved aside Archer's polite expression of interest. "Will you tell me now if you think there's any good reason why I shouldn't start a relationship with Malcolm Reed?"

Archer's eyebrows lifted at the name, but he made no other response. "Malcolm? No, I don't see why not. Is this connected in any way with what happened on VX-73?"

"Sort of, yeah. That has to be just about the strangest situation I've ever been in barring _none_ ," Trip emphasised, letting Archer see that for a man who had briefly been pregnant by an alien female this was a substantial claim. "When I thought I was alone down there..." He paused a moment, then: "I've been scared before, Cap, but that was _way_ beyond scary, you have no idea. So I'm stumblin' around in the dark in this place where the ground is moving under my feet and I just don't know which way to turn, and then I hear Malcolm's voice and a minute later he's holdin' my hand. I was still just getting used to having him as a friend, y'know? And then all of a sudden..." The words seemed to dry up, but the encouraging and sympathetic expression on Archer's face gave Tucker the impetus to continue. "It started to get very easy just to touch each other all the time and consider each other's feelings instead of our own. _We_ were all we had, down in that place. He was _my_ lifeline, and I guess I was _his_."

"I know," Archer said gently. "No way that wouldn't change things between you."

"What I'm tryin' to say is...we kind of relied on each other for everything, and it made us face up to a few things we'd been tryin' to avoid. Malcolm told me he was gay, which I was probably the last guy on the ship to figure out."

"Just about, I'd say," Archer smiled. "Maybe you didn't want to see it."

Trip absorbed the words, and the kind intent, thoughtfully. "You could be right," he conceded. "Anyhow, that was like the last barrier between us. After that I knew we were startin' to care about each other a whole lot. And I got kind of used to being around him and touching him and holding his hand. I sort of miss that."

"Uh-huh?"

Trip swallowed his obvious embarrassment, then continued manfully. "After we got back I wanted to give it a little time, you know, in case it was just sort of a hangover from the place and the situation we were in, but I don't think it is. I've got so that I really miss the kind of closeness we had down there, and I want to try and get it back. I'm pretty sure he feels the same way, but he's waiting for me to make the first move. I _am_ the senior officer, after all." He paused, then--as though the words were erupting from him under enormous pressure--"Fact is, Jon, I think I'm gonna be in love with him. I hope that doesn't cause any problems."

"Not for me." Archer had sat quietly watching his friend's face throughout this apparently painful confession. He had always known Trip to be completely honest about things that troubled him, and he couldn't help admiring the courage he had displayed in speaking of his feelings. "You know as well as I do what the rules are about sexual relationships on board ship. I trust you to recognise the limits and be professional about it. If you want to get married...well, I know that's a long way in the future, but it wouldn't be a problem as far as I'm concerned. I just can't have you start a family while you're both under my command; you know the regulations about children on 'fleet vessels."

Trip grinned in mild embarrassment. "Okay, okay, you're way ahead of me there," he said, holding up a staying hand. "I'm not thinking any further than the next few weeks and the chance to get to know Malcolm a little better--assuming he'll let me, that is."

"You afraid he'd turn you down? Somehow I doubt that."

"Of course I'm afraid," Trip countered. "I've got a lot riding on this relationship. Why? You tellin' me you know something I don't?"

"Possibly," Archer smiled. He had known that sooner or later he would have to have this conversation with Trip, and now seemed as good a time as any. "When we transported you out of that place you were both unconscious, and you remained like that for nearly another twenty-four hours. You remember, you woke up feeling really great and like you could take on the world?"

"Yeah." The euphoria of waking under the muted lights of sick bay after the black hell of VX-73 had induced an endorphin rush Tucker doubted he would ever forget. He had felt fit and rested and full of enthusiasm for his job, and he had bounced about the ship for two or three days on the kind of high that only ever seemed to follow promotion or great exam results or a really, _really_ fine first date. He had been incredibly annoying to all who knew him, and it hadn't seemed to help that Malcolm was in much the same buoyant mood and was driving his own people mad in exactly the same way.

"Well, what you _don't_ know, Trip, is how we found the pair of you. When our sensors detected life signs under the planet's surface we knew well enough it was you two, but the sensors couldn't separate you far enough to transport you individually. From the readings we guessed that maybe you were tied or chained together--so we took a chance and transported you just as you were, direct to sick bay. You arrived curled up in each other's arms and so fast asleep you didn't stir even when we pulled you apart and put you in separate bio beds. I have to admit _that_ wouldn't have been my first choice, either, but Phlox thought you'd be easier to monitor that way."

"So what you're saying _is_ ," Tucker returned, suppressing a twinge of annoyance; " _you_ knew about Malcolm and me before we knew ourselves?"

"Maybe round about the same time," Archer conceded. "Nobody else saw you, if that's what you're worried about," he hastened to reassure him. "Only three people were there when you were transported in--T'Pol, Phlox and me--and I'm sure none of us told anyone else about it. But if ever I saw two people who were happy to be together it was you and Malcolm when you arrived in sick bay. I have to admit you looked--kind of right together. It was a shame to part you, and I'm sorry now we did."

Tucker digested this sentiment thoughtfully. "Okay. So you're saying you've been _expecting_ me to tell you how I'm startin' to feel about him."

"Not exactly 'expecting'," Archer amended gently. "'Hoping'. I'd be glad to see you in a relationship with somebody who cares about you, Trip, and there's no reason I can think of why it shouldn't be Malcolm. I just hadn't realised you weren't exclusively heterosexual, that's all. You kept that pretty quiet."

A short, ironic chuckle burst from the younger man. "That's the funny part, Cap. I always _thought_ I was straight. _Have_ been, up to now. But I guess sooner or later the day comes along when you have to try something new. Do me a favour, will you, don't tell Malcolm I'm a virgin?"

"You don't think he might eventually work it out for himself?" Archer teased, kindly.

"By the time he does, I'm hopin' it won't matter any more," Tucker told him, with an enormous, relaxed and deeply self-deprecatory grin.

* * *

Arriving at _Enterprise's_ gym a few minutes later, neither was particularly surprised to discover several of their crew-mates already in occupation. Ensign Travis Mayweather was going through a free-weight routine in front of a large mirror, studiously pumping away at a demanding set of biceps curls. Crewman Elizabeth Cutler was putting in a punishing run on a treadmill. Over by the far side of the small gymnasium, head down over the handlebars of a static exercise bike, the subject of their recent conversation was sweating his way through his daily 50 kilometres.

"Travis. Liz. Malcolm." Calmly Archer acknowledged his crew members one by one, leaning over to touch the keypad on the door of the squash court. "Trip?"

"Huh?"

"No time like the present."

Tucker groaned and threw a baleful look in his Captain's direction. He received in return the most innocent of expressions, although the twinkle in Archer's eyes challenged him to make good on his earlier protestations.

Trip glared, shrugged, and dropped his sports bag by--but not quite _on_ \--Archer's feet. With a completely inscrutable look on his face he crossed the floor to where Reed was pedalling furiously through what, according to the screen in front of him, was a spectacular Italian landscape.

"Hey Malcolm, how you been?"

The armoury officer looked up from the screen at his approach, but did not stop cycling.

"Trip," he said, a little breathlessly. "Fine."

It could have been any casual encounter between any two officers; nothing about it indicated that there was any particular closeness between them.

"When you're finished here, d'you want to have dinner with me in the Mess Hall?" Tucker asked, perhaps a little too casually.

Reed saw through him immediately. His feet slowed to a halt and the readouts on the exercise bike vanished instantly as the machine re-set itself.

"Damn!" Malcolm thumped the screen petulantly. "I've forgotten where I was."

"North shore of Lake Garda headin' for the mountains, it looked like," Trip supplied, having had a good view of the screen from where he stood. He was quite familiar with that particular _Giro d'Italia_ simulation; he had failed on it miserably and hated it ever since. "Dinner?" he prompted.

For a moment it seemed as though Malcolm intended to decline. Then, suddenly, as though to his own surprise: "Yes. Thank you."

"Seven o'clock?" Trip went on. "I should've had time to whup the Captain by then."

"Seven o'clock," Malcolm told him, with a nod of the head, keying in the re-set codes for the bike. He was trying for all the nonchalance he could manage. "I'll look forward to it."

"Yeah," Trip drawled. "Me too."

Startled by the tone, Malcolm paused and let the machine time-out again. He looked up to meet a slightly hesitant but very affectionate smile and a clear telepathic message being transmitted through it. For a moment it flustered him--and then he too broke into a grin of all-encompassing delight and for what seemed the longest time they merely smiled at one another without any comprehension that they were not the only people present in the gym. It was only Archer's tactful clearing of his throat that brought sanity back to the proceedings, otherwise they might have remained frozen, grinning at one another, for the rest of the evening. The sounds and movement in the room around them made a slow return to their consciousness and reluctantly Malcolm tore his eyes away.

"I'll see you later, then," he said, ridiculously aware of the sound of his own voice and firmly convinced he was wearing his heart on his sleeve so plainly that he was blushing a livid and unattractive shade of scarlet. Trip's own colour had deepened a little and he looked rather less at ease than usual, if such a thing were possible. He would never be a polished diplomat, for all his meticulous manners; virtually incapable of dissimulation even in a good cause, his transparency was one of his most endearing attributes.

"See you in an hour," Trip echoed, turning away.

Malcolm could not help watching the other man's progress back across the room, just appreciating his build and enjoying the way he moved. Somehow he suppressed the desire to give breath to a long, low whistle of approval although his sculptured lips instinctively formed the shape. The Captain seemed to sense this, for he met Malcolm's gaze with a mildly admonitory glare and Malcolm felt even less in command of himself than before. Then Trip turned again at the entrance to the squash court and grinned, and Malcolm returned his smile with one of helpless adoration. It had not taken much to reduce him to the mental equivalent of a quivering jelly, and when the squash court door closed behind Trip he felt relief run through his whole body; being under the direct beam of Trip's pale sapphire gaze had its stressful aspect, and he was grateful for the rest.

It was then that he noticed Cutler and Mayweather watching him with amused interest, and it ran through his mind to protest that it wasn't _at all_ what it looked like and they had it all wrong. Then it occurred to him that it was _precisely_ what it looked like and they _didn't_ have it all wrong; he'd just been asked out by the Chief Engineer and he was thrilled to the marrow--and _they_ knew it as well as _he_ did.

What the hell, anyway? He and Trip were both free to date if they wanted, and anyone misguided enough to disapprove on the gender issue was welcome to take it up with Starfleet Command. Not that they'd get much change out of them: 'fleet had long ago recognised the impossibility of governing the mating habits of its personnel, thank goodness. His father could do a twenty minute standup routine on the subject at the drop of a hat; 'institutionalised immorality', he called it.

Sighing at the conflicting memories, Malcolm re-keyed the Lake Garda programme, scarcely realising he had started again at a steeper place than he intended, and cycled away blissfully for most of the next hour with his mind in a tumult and a foolishly open expression of utter contentment irremovably welded to his face.

* * *

Through a combination of unaccustomed inability to get organised in time and a sneaking desire not to arrive too early, Malcolm managed to be five minutes late getting to the Mess Hall. He found a relaxed Trip Tucker leaning over the back of a chair chatting animatedly to Mayweather and Beamish, but the minute the door opened and he spotted Malcolm he abandoned them in mid-sentence.

"Hey," he said, affectionately. "I was beginning to think you'd stood me up."

"Perish the thought," Malcolm grinned. "Just couldn't get my act together. Sorry."

"Forget it." Trip waved a dismissive hand. "I bagged us a decent table and ordered a pizza. I figured _everybody_ can eat pizza, right?"

"Oh yes. Sure." Escorted to a corner table, Malcolm took a seat with his back to the room. He wondered whether Trip had realised that people were looking at them, or whether he just didn't care.

Trip sat down at right-angles to him, effectively screening them from their potential audience.

"I didn't order anything to drink," he said. "Didn't know if you'd want beer or wine."

"I don't know. Red wine, with pizza, I think."

"Suits me." When the Mess Steward arrived, Trip ordered red wine for them both.

"What about garlic bread?" Malcolm asked, beginning to enjoy the prospect of dining in such lively company.

"My mother didn't have any stupid children," Trip commented with a grin. "Both kinds--whatever _you_ don't eat, _I_ will."

"That sounds like a challenge."

"Oh yeah. And wait'll you see the dessert menu. You're gonna want to leave space for that."

Malcolm chuckled, playing with the cutlery on the table, his expression far away.

"What?" his escort asked.

"Nothing. Just that...well, this feels a lot like a real date, doesn't it?"

Adopting a comic expression of hurt bewilderment, Trip sat abruptly back in his chair. "I'm surprised at you, _Loo_ -tenant," he said, as though offended. "Actually," he leaned forward again, his tone now mock-confidential; "I pretty much thought this _was_ a real date. How about you?"

"I bloody well _hope_ it is," Malcolm told him with some vigour.

* * *

By the end of the bottle of wine the two officers had more or less ceased to be a novelty in the Mess Hall; as they had done nothing extraordinary--beyond laughing rather a lot--whatever attention they had attracted at first had gradually been diverted to other amusements, and in any event the other personnel in the room had been in constant flux. When Hoshi Sato wandered in and made a beeline for them, however, Mayweather made a determined attempt to distract her in case they took exception to being interrupted; he was unsuccessful, and she sailed right past without noticing his efforts.

"Hi," she said, looming over them with an uncertain smile on her face.

Trip turned and grinned up at her. "Hi there, Hoshi. What can we do for you?"

"I have some news," she said, smiling down from one to the other. She noticed that the normally unflappable Lieutenant Reed looked rather pink around the cheekbones and his preternaturally tidy hair was beginning to disarrange itself, and that Trip seemed to be unravelling gently under the influence of the wine and the company. How much sense she would get out of either of them was a moot point.

"Oh yeah?"

"I've been working on deciphering the inscriptions from the surface buildings on VX-73," she said. "They're hieroglyphs, so it's more of a code than a language, but I think I'm beginning to make some headway. The inscriptions are pretty badly weathered, but over fifty percent of them refer to something they call the 'Womb of Reason'. Or," she added, less certainly, "the same words could be translated as the 'Birthplace of Thought'. The Vulcan survey team who first saw the inscriptions thought their meaning was allegorical--referring to the mind or perhaps the soul, although Vulcans aren't keen on the concept of a 'soul'."

"Is that so?" Trip asked, politely trying to sound intrigued.

"Could've fooled me," Malcolm added loyally.

Belatedly catching the undercurrent in their body language, Hoshi felt herself beginning to flush a little. She was just starting to understand what she'd interrupted.

"The only other thing we've discovered," she ploughed on, "is that the most complete of the surface structures is probably some kind of temple complex. There are similarities with some Earth installations, particularly on Crete, only the scale is immensely greater. None of the buildings have any windows, and the Doctor feels that the inhabitants may not have had the power of sight as we understand it; he thinks they perceived their world through other senses. Even their language is tactile," she concluded, hearing lameness in her own voice.

"That's fascinating, Hoshi," Trip told her, kindly.

"No eyes." Reed echoed. "Makes sense if there's nothing to see, I suppose."

"There being nothing to see makes _better_ sense if you have no eyes, Malcolm," Trip reminded him. "Hey, sit down, Hoshi, have a glass of wine."

"Oh, no thank you," the Asian girl demurred, with a smile and a wave of the hand. "I'm still on duty. I only came in to get a sandwich. Enjoy the rest of your meal," she added, backing off in undisguised relief. "I'm sorry I disturbed you."

Trip waved her away with an affectionate gesture, then turned back to his dinner companion.

" _'Sit down and have a glass of wine!'"_ Malcolm mocked, with a wry laugh. "My God, Commander Tucker, you have the cheek of the devil himself."

"One of my most attractive qualities," Trip conceded.

"True, but unnerving at times."

"Sooner they all stop seeing us as some kinda fairground attraction the happier I'll be," was the rejoinder. "I don't know about you, but I don't plan to provide them with endless free entertainment _however_ this all goes with us."

"Oh, I think I know how it's going to go," Reed told him, emptying his wine glass and grinning evilly across the table.

" _Do_ you?"

"Oh yes."

Tucker absorbed these words and seemed to be considering them very carefully. Then, after a long interval, he finally said: "I think it's time we got out of here, Lieutenant."

"Without dessert?" Malcolm sounded scandalised. "Why?"

Trip leaned closer. "Because I have a feelin' I'm about to kiss you," he said, softly, "and I'm _damned_ if I want to do it in front of an audience."

"Ah," Reed conceded. "In that case, perhaps I can forego dessert for once. Lead the way, Commander."

"Okay." Trip got to his feet. "Your place or mine?"

"Yours is nearer," Malcolm observed calmly.

"So it is. You got it."

As they moved towards the exit, with several of their fellow crew members watching every movement but at the same time pretending to be busy with other matters, Trip turned around and favoured the whole room with a beaming smile.

"Goodnight, folks," he said. "Hope you all get a good night's sleep and I'll see you on duty tomorrow."

One or two hardy souls muttered 'goodnights', and as the door closed after them and he piloted Malcolm towards the nearest turbolift Trip gave vent to a filthy chuckle.

"Let them chew on that a while," he said. "I'm not about to go hidin' and sneakin' from the crew."

"I don't see why we should," Malcolm agreed as the turbolift doors opened. Fortunately the little cabin was empty, as Trip grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him into it bodily. As the doors closed his mouth drew closer to Malcolm's, leaning down as though to kiss him very thoroughly and tenderly, and the expression on Trip's face was that of a man who has finally found what he wants in life and will let nothing stand between him and it. He was stopped by Malcolm's fingers firm on his lips.

"Not here," he said briskly. "I don't want to hide any more than you do, but I'm not going to flaunt it either. Our relationship is _our_ business, no-one else's."

"The Captain knows," Trip objected, nonetheless accepting the sentiment and backing off to the other side of the cabin.

"They all _know_ ," Malcolm responded, "but that's a damned sight different from giving them a floor-show. There's nothing less public about kissing me in a turbolift than there is in the middle of the Mess Hall," he added. "I'm not ready for that yet, any more than you are."

"Point taken, _Loo_ -tenant," Trip smiled. "Keep your shirt on."

Malcolm chuckled, Trip's standard admonition to remain calm sounding extremely odd in the present context. "If you absolutely _insist_ ," he said, as the lift drew to a silent halt.

"Well, okay, maybe you don't have to take me literally this time, Malcolm," the chief engineer told him with a laugh.

"Thank goodness for that," was the heartfelt response.

* * *

Once inside his cabin, Trip's hand made instinctively for the door lock. Then he crossed the room and hitched a bottle and two glasses from a shelf, automatically pouring two generous measures of spirit without consulting Malcolm or even looking in his direction. An uncharacteristic nervousness had fallen upon him as he contemplated the next natural development in their relationship; he had the theory by heart, but its practical application was another matter altogether.

"Scared?" he asked Malcolm, sympathetically, as he handed him the drink. The armoury officer swigged it down almost in one sustained gulp.

"Of course. You?"

"Sure. This means a lot to me, Malcolm. I don't want to see it go wrong." Trip, too, made inroads into his drink. It didn't sit comfortably on top of the wine and the flavours clashed; it had been a bad choice, but Malcolm hadn't seemed to notice.

"Hmmm. Well, if I may make a suggestion..."

"You may."

"...then why don't we kill the lights? We were never afraid of each other back on VX-73."

Trip swallowed the last of his drink and set down the glass. He heard Malcolm's glass clink with it on the counter as he reached for the lighting control and plunged the cabin into a darkness that, apart from a distant lambency edging the port and one tiny green tell-tale on each of the two door controls, almost matched that of VX-73.

"Closest I can get," Trip shrugged. "Absolute dark's pretty hard to achieve, even on board."

"This will do very nicely." An expanding breath of relaxation escaped Malcolm, as if he had just been released from a long work shift and was inhaling free and clean air for the first time in months. "God, Trip, this feels so much better."

"I know. I missed the darkness nearly as much as I missed _you_ \--and I hate to tell you how much _that_ was."

"Maybe as much as _I_ missed _you_." The sounds from where Malcolm stood seemed to indicate that he was beginning to remove his clothing. Jolted into movement, Trip did likewise; he turned back the top half of his uniform jump-suit and wriggled out of his undershirt which he dropped to the floor. When he reached his arms out and found Malcolm exactly where he expected him to be, they fell into one another's embrace bare chest to bare chest, meeting in an equality of strength.

Trip stroked Malcolm's neck and shoulders, dimly aware that one of Malcolm's strong hands had splayed across his back and was braced there as though absorbing the feel of his skin.

"It feels right," Malcolm whispered against his neck.

"Always did," Trip confirmed. "Just you an' me an' the darkness. That place feels like a part of me now, and _you_...You feel like _all_ of me. Every damn' thing that matters. Don't think I could stand to lose you, Malcolm."

"Nor I you. Don't get me wrong, Trip, I knew I loved you a long time ago, only now I feel... _joined_ to you. I'm beginning to wonder if whatever transported us down to VX-73 _changed_ something between us. Made us closer, not just in the obvious way."

"Finding you in the dark," Trip mused. "Then going off on my own and finding you _again_. I don't know." He shook his head. "This is all kinda abstract stuff, stuff I don't really understand, but I feel like we skipped a whole set of steps in this relationship and got to where we need each other for survival real fast. I don't want to put barriers around you, Malcolm, but I'm gonna need to know that if I reach out for you in the dark you'll _be_ there."

"While there's breath in my body," Reed confirmed, gripping him tightly by way of emphasis. "I came a long way to find you, Trip. I gave up on the fairy princesses a long time ago. I started looking for a handsome prince instead."

"Well, thank you. You're not exactly a toad yourself, if it comes to that."

Malcolm smiled. Trip felt the muscles in the man's face move against his collar-bone, and he bent his head and kissed Malcolm's brow.

"You're precious to me, Malcolm. I wasn't looking for this to happen, I swear, but now that it has...man, you changed my life."

One sturdy hand reached up around Trip's neck, stroked the back of his head, pulled him down. With unerring aim Malcolm's mouth found his mouth in the darkness and Malcolm kissed him the way Trip had always wanted to have someone kiss him; someone who gave absolutely everything and held nothing back; someone uninhibited and infinitely generous and devoted to him without limit. He fell into the kiss with delight and let the long-desired sweetness of Malcolm's mouth overwhelm him. They were both breathing irregularly when the kiss finally disintegrated, but they strayed no more than a breath apart.

"You've fucked girls?" Malcolm asked, abruptly.

"Yes, of course."

"Up the backside?" Somehow the crudity seemed appropriate, in keeping with Malcolm's blunt no-nonsense persona. Who would ever have thought that such a man could at the same time be a hopeless romantic with a head full of glittering fantasies?

"Yes."

"It's no different," Malcolm said, reassuringly, the practical side of his personality reasserting itself. "Just remember I'm not a fragile virgin and I'm not afraid of being hurt."

"You _guessed_." Trip sounded vaguely disappointed.

"I'm afraid so. Did you think I wouldn't?"

"No, not really. I just hoped it wouldn't matter."

"It doesn't. Don't be afraid of it, love. This is just one more milestone in your life."

"'Love'," Trip repeated, numbly. "Did you _really_ just call me 'love'?"

"Yes." Malcolm sounded puzzled. "Do you mind?"

"No. _Love_." Stroking Malcolm's face tenderly, peppering his mouth with tiny kisses, Trip was beginning to feel he knew at last what that mysterious word represented. Sloppy promises and open demonstrations of affection might work for other people, and he wished them well, but for himself and Malcolm it was a whole lot simpler than that; it was the touch of a hand in a dark place and an arm to lean on when one stumbled. "I don't ever want you further away from me than this," he said, in a rush.

"Oh really? The jealous type, are you?" Malcolm teased.

"Psychopathically."

"Then you'd better make sure I'm never tempted to stray," Malcolm whispered. He turned in Trip's arms so that his back was against Trip's chest, and brought one of the engineer's large capable hands down to his groin. They were both still clothed from the waist down, and Trip's hand encountered warm hardness beneath two thick layers of cloth. "I think I'd like to be fucked up against the bulkhead, Commander Tucker," Malcolm told him, matter-of-fact tone sending a thrill through Trip's entire body. "Do you think you could kindly oblige me?"

"Lieutenant Reed, sweetheart, I'll give it my best shot," Trip assured him in honeyed tones. His hand dipped beneath the waistband of Malcolm's jump-suit and encountered strong, moist, erect flesh beneath--and, as he touched Malcolm for the first time and heard his excited intake of breath, the darkness filled with colours that swirled and danced like fireflies around their gloriously meshing bodies.

* * *

Squashed shoulder to shoulder in Trip's narrow bunk they slept only intermittently, over-wrought minds running feverishly back and forth over everything that had happened to them.

"I guess it'll be all over the ship by morning," Trip hazarded, kissing the strong shoulder that lay beneath his cheek.

"The noise we were both making, we could have sold tickets," was the wry response. "This is the time we find out how good the sound-proofing is."

"You feelin' self-conscious about it?"

"No. But if some joker greets me tomorrow morning gasping ' _Oh my God, Trip!'_ I think I'm going to lose my sense of humour in a hurry."

"I wouldn't want to be in _his_ shoes," Trip laughed.

"Well, I wouldn't miss him and hit the wall, I can assure you."

His lover chuckled. "That's such a British thing to say," he said. "Most of the time you speak pretty good American, but every so often I catch you out."

"I'm a product of my culture," Malcolm told him. "Just the same as you are. But I'm out here in the middle of nowhere trying to _shed_ some of that cultural conditioning."

"I'd say you just succeeded spectacularly," Trip returned. "You plain wore me out, _Loo_ -tenant."

"Did I, love? I'm sorry. I think I've been building up to that for rather a long time. Fancied you since the moment I came on board--even though I also found you thoroughly obnoxious."

"Obnoxious? _Me_? Take that back!"

"Okay. Would you prefer 'nauseating'?"

"Not a lot. So what changed it for you?"

"The baby, of course. It was ridiculous, I know, you and I were nothing to one another at the time--but I was _insanely_ jealous. Promise me something, Trip. Promise you'll never even _contemplate_ becoming pregnant again without my involvement."

"You want to be the father of my children? God, Malcolm..."

"Or you mine, I don't care which way round it is."

"All right." A quiet acceptance, without protestations. Early in the relationship though it might be, there were certain things about it they felt they could already take for granted; that it was exclusive, and that it was for life. "I don't expect it to be any time soon," Trip went on, "but next time I'm ready to be a parent I _promise_ it'll be with you. Happy?"

"Deliriously." The word sounded oddly flat, delivered in Malcolm's brisk English accent. "God, I'm hungry," he added, breaking the mood entirely. "All those calories we've expended, and I never had any pudding."

Trip sat up sharply. "Midnight raid on the Mess Hall?" he suggested.

"Just the ticket. Can you lend me something to wear? I don't fancy that uniform much after the treatment it's had."

"Sweat pants and teeshirt," Trip said, scrambling out of bed abruptly and hitting the light control. Then he turned back and looked down at the man in the bed. Malcolm was blinking slightly in the sudden brilliance of the light. His hair was awry and his body utterly relaxed like that of a rag doll thrown down by a careless child. His mouth was swollen and bruised from kisses that had gone out of control, his nipples sore, his legs parted; he had used and been used until he was incapable of continuing; they had worn one another out, and still wanted more. "You look incredible." Trip bent down and kissed him deeply, their mouths fusing as they had so rapidly learned to do. "God, I think I want you again."

"Let me have something to eat, first," was the whispered reply, "or I might not survive the experience."

Trip heaved him a set of grey sweat pants and a dark green sleeveless teeshirt. "Stop moaning, Lieutenant," he growled through a smile. " _You're_ not the one who's been rejected in favour of dessert."

* * *

Hardly surprisingly, as a quick glance showed that it was 3.20 a.m. ship's time, the Mess Hall was deserted and its lights dimmed. Nonetheless many of the serving cases were still full, and Trip made a rapid survey of their contents.

"Banoffee pie," he said, grinning. "Piled high with cream."

"Think of all that cholesterol," Malcolm chided, draping himself over the senior officer's shoulder. "Is there another one?"

"Nope. Share this with me?"

"All right. What do you want to drink?"

"Coffee. Three sugars."

"I'm amazed your arteries aren't completely silted up, Commander darling," Malcolm remarked lightly, turning to obtain two coffees from the dispenser. When he returned, Trip had occupied a seat at the table nearest the servery where the light from the display cases fell most strongly. He set a mug down in front of the engineer, and received a dessert spoon in exchange. Malcolm slumped into the chair next to Trip, leaned against him, and began to tuck into the dessert as if they had been sharing food all their lives.

Trip took a spoonful of what seemed to be mostly banana and cream. "You know in some cultures this would be tantamount to announcing our engagement," he said mildly. "Back home, if I took you to dinner with my mother, she'd virtually have the hall booked and the flowers chosen by the end of the meal."

"I'd like to meet your mother," Malcolm smiled. "Is she like you?"

"Blonde, blue-eyed and devastatingly gorgeous? Yeah, she's like me. How about yours?"

"Little. Dark. A bit distant. I don't think she'll take this at all well. She's been hoping I'd grow out of this 'phase' ever since I was fourteen."

"What about your dad?"

"He was a good looking man in his youth. My theory is some man made advances to him and he didn't like it. I think it warped his judgement. My sister's the only one who ever accepted me as I am. We always fell for the same boys in high school," he chuckled.

"Would I like her? Would _she_ like _me_?"

"Probably too much. I'd be afraid she might try and steal you."

"She's welcome to _try_."

Silence fell for a moment, while they both concentrated on eating. Then Malcolm said thoughtfully: "You know, I've been wondering if that place on VX-73 wasn't connected with some kind of initiation or mating ritual."

Trip stopped eating and stared at him in the dim light. "How do you mean?"

"Well, I don't know for sure, but it felt as if it was intended either to weld us together or tear us apart forever. There was an instructor at the Academy who used to say 'Whatever doesn't kill me...' "

" '...makes me stronger'," Trip completed. "Captain Harmon, Cultural Studies. I remember him."

"Well," Malcolm continued, "when Hoshi gets a little further on with her translations I'm betting she'll find evidence that bonded couples were expected to pass through that 'Womb of Reason' place before they were legally joined. If we were VX-73ans we could probably consider ourselves officially married by now."

"Now that," Trip mused, "is an awesome thought."

"I know the evidence is a bit thin," Malcolm shrugged, "but I've heard of similar arrangements in primitive human cultures. I just feel...something was testing us. Us as a _couple_ , I mean."

"Something that knew we were a couple before we knew it ourselves?" Trip took another spoonful of pie and transferred it slowly to his mouth.

"Are you telling me you'd never even _thought_ of me before?"

"No! Damn, no, Malcolm, of _course_ I had! But I'd've been a hell of a lot slower to move without VX-73."

"That's just what I'm saying. Some ancient automatic device plucks us off our nice safe starship and puts us down in a void beneath a dead planet, virtually throws us at one another--aren't you even remotely curious _why_?"

"We were lucky to get out alive," Trip reminded him. "If we hadn't climbed up to within transporter range we could have died of starvation down there before _Enterprise_ ever found us."

"No," Malcolm said, firmly. "There's more to it than that. I think whatever mechanism put us in there was also designed to release us again when we'd met the criteria."

"And to do that...?"

"Making love would probably have done it."

Trip was staring at him as if he was completely mad. Short of sleep Malcolm may have been, and currently engaged in filling his system with caffeine and dairy produce which wouldn't do him any good either, but it was apparent that he believed in his wild theory implicitly.

"Well, okay," he said, slowly. "I don't have a better suggestion, and I sort of wish we _had_ made love back then--but you've got to admit it wasn't exactly a boudoir down there."

"Not for us, perhaps, but for the VX-73ans it might have been."

"It might, at that," Trip admitted. "You going to eat some more pie, Malcolm?"

"Oh yes. Sorry." He dug into the pie again, helping himself to an enormous mouthful while Trip watched, indulgently.

"You know, if there's anything in what you say maybe we should advise the Captain to go back there and try and disable that machinery in case it snags some other ship's crew some time. _We_ should be safe enough, now--and if we're not, at least we now know how to deal with the place."

"I'd be afraid it might pull someone _else_ from _Enterprise_ down this time," Malcolm said. "Maybe...maybe the Captain and T'Pol?"

"Nah, I think she'd be pretty well bomb-proof, but it might get the Doctor and Cutler--or somebody else we don't know about." He paused, then; "You noticed, then? Archer and T'Pol, I mean?"

"I'm no stranger to unrequited love, you know, Trip. And _my_ mother didn't raise any stupid children either."

"Just funny, smart and very sexy ones," Trip laughed. "Finished your coffee, lover?"

"Just about. Why?"

"Thought I'd whisk you off to my quarters and make love to you again," was the huskily-voiced response. "Unless you have any objections, that is?"

"Not in _this_ lifetime," Malcolm told him, with a smile. "Lead the way. I'm all yours.

"Good," Trip replied, pushing his coffee mug aside with finality. "cos that's what I was kinda counting on."

* * *

A slow, dreamy awakening into absolute darkness. Malcolm sprawled, suspended somewhere between conscious and unconscious, with his face and his left arm dangling over the edge of the bed and his right arm, bent at the elbow, jammed under a thin pillow which was only in notional contact with his head. The bed seemed a lot bigger than it had for most of the night; the other body that had shared this precious morsel of space had been gone for some time, leaving nothing behind but a warm memory of its presence.

"You plain wore me out," Trip had said at some stage. The feeling was mutual. At the moment Malcolm didn't care if he never moved again; he could still feel Trip's body against his as though it had somehow impressed itself on the very air in the room; as though a ghost trace of him remained here with its arms firmly wrapped around Malcolm's blissfully lax body.

"Damn, I'm on duty in two hours," he remembered Trip telling him. "Got to flush the coolant system before the Captain decides he wants Warp Five again. You want to stay here?"

Malcolm had balanced the prospect of another two hours in Trip's company against the inevitably embarrassing process of returning to his own quarters, though a busy ship, wearing someone else's clothes and looking as if he'd been screwed within an inch of his life.

"I should go," he'd said, knowing deep down that was the right answer but lacking the willpower to implement it. He'd never quite managed to tear himself away from Trip when he should have done, so now it would be the unshaven progress through brightly-lit corridors, and arch enquiries from his colleagues as to whether he had slept well. Serve them damn well right if he said 'no'.

Sliding off the bed he found himself on hands and knees on the floor, wondering when he had got quite so out of condition as to make this feel like an Olympic event. If there was time before his duty shift started, he'd better try and get in a session in the gym and try and clear some of the cobwebs away. He managed to get his legs under him, pushed upright, and found the light control at first try. The sudden brilliance was like a slap in the face, and a scruffy Neanderthal leered back at his abandoned nakedness from out of the mirror.

"Oh god," he groaned, trying not to examine his own image too closely. He turned back to check the time. His duty shift started in precisely thirty minutes, and it would take at least fifteen to shower, shave and dress.

In the nearest he ever got to panic, he stumbled into Trip's grey sweat pants again. His discarded uniform from the night before had been folded and fastened into a bundle, but there could be no disguising exactly what it was. Everyone who didn't already know how he'd spent the night would take one look at him crawling home in ship's daytime with his uniform under his arm and draw the obvious conclusion. Annoyed at his own weakness he shoved his feet into his boots and wriggled into Trip's tee-shirt simultaneously, almost halfway out of the door before he looked across and saw it. Them. He almost missed them completely.

On the narrow shelf at the head of the bed where most crew members kept pictures of their families, Malcolm noticed a PADD and a small silver-coloured flask. The tell-tale on the PADD indicated a message addressed to him. Thumbing the control quickly, he read the words.

> Hi
> 
> Hope you slept well. Sorry I had to walk out on you. Let me know if you want to have lunch together--I'll be free any time after noon.
> 
> Did I mention I love you?
> 
> Trip.
> 
> PS. Breakfast in the flask.

"Did you just happen to mention...?" Malcolm echoed, feeling faintly ridiculous. "No, you bloody well didn't, as it happens." He took the top off the flask and sniffed. Chilled pineapple juice. "But then again," he conceded softly, "maybe you didn't need to."

He took a deep swig of the drink. It was cold, sweet and wonderful and cleansed the taste of the previous night's excesses from his mouth. It was almost enough to make him strong enough to face the day. After all his experience and his years of training, he thought he ought to be capable of dealing with a few knowing remarks. In any event, Trip had probably had to endure much the same sort of thing already, and he was damned if he would allow his lover to suffer alone.

Malcolm bundled up the soiled uniform and the PADD, gripped the flask by the neck, consciously adjusted the tattered remains of his dignity to cover as much of himself as possible, and stepped out fearlessly into the corridor.


End file.
